


The Lion and the Magpie

by KatiMae



Series: Tumblr Prompts [6]
Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Arson, Blood, Gavin joins the crew, Gavin likes fire, Humor, I'll try at least, Imagery, Jack is enamoured, M/M, Murder, Protective Ryan Haywood, Tumblr Prompt, Violence, a bit of angst, couldn't help myself, fluff too, kind of, me too Gav, no murder break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-08-15
Packaged: 2018-12-15 17:57:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11811255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatiMae/pseuds/KatiMae
Summary: Gavin hadn't had much of a plan when he came to the states, but he's sure that accidentally walking into a murder wouldn't have been in that plan.Jack's bar was his sanctuary.  Until that asshole Ramsey decided it was his new hang out.





	The Lion and the Magpie

**Author's Note:**

> Requested on tumblr by an anon: “Can I request some fahc jackvin I'm thirsty boi :,^)” 
> 
> So incredibly sorry I'm however many months late on this.   
> Between mental health and finals I kinda lost it for a while.  
> But I'm back now, so here we go!  
> Hope you like it!  
> -Kati

Jack’s bar is his sanctuary.      _ Was  _ his sanctuary.  Until some mustachioed idiot waltzed in like he owned the place, ordered a whiskey neat, and threw himself down on the bar stool in front of Jack.

That was two years ago, almost, and now Geoff Lazer Ramsey had become a semi-permanent fixture in Jack’s bar.  So had the aspiring mob boss’ practical guard dog, who Geoff sometimes called Vaga, or Ryan, or any number of pet names.  Ryan responded to all of them, even the ones that made Jack’s more sober patrons nearly gag.  The normally silent man seemed to live on diet coke and the fear garnered from his unnerving blue stare.  Jack often wondered how in the hell the two had met, considering the first few times they came in had ended with blood and bullets and now Ryan let Geoff hang drunkenly off his arms while slurring something that sounds like “honey-bunch”.  

Jack decides that it will remain a mystery, the same way Geoff’s reason for frequenting the bar would always be glaringly obvious.

“C’mon, Jacky!”  The man dragged his vowels through the mud drunkenly, as if it would make his argument more convincing.  It won’t, it never has before.

“Not my name, and I told you, no murder in my bar.  Take your shit outside Ramsey.”  Geoff pouted at him, glaring, and Ryan shifted his hold on the terrified man’s throat.  Jack sighed internally, thankful that they had at least waited for him to get the last few stragglers out.  

And for his employees to go home.

“It’s really gon-going to be easier if we don’t have to move him, Jack.” Ryan, ever the voice of reason, points out.  Jack can see where his trimmed nails are cutting into the man’s neck, his thumb indenting the skin just to the left of the jugular.  

“I do  _ not _ want blood in my bar, you take that somewhere else.”  Geoff exaggerates his pout.  Jack tries to imitate one of Ryan’s glares.  He knows he doesn’t look intimidating-  _ ginger lumberjack Santa _ , his former-pool-shark turned bouncer always told him.  God damn Geoff Lazer Ramsey and his bullshit.  “Not in my bar, Geoff, come  _ on _ .”

“Oops.”  The two turn back to Ryan, and are faced with the captive’s blood flowing- unnaturally fast, jesus- around the blonde’s still-secured fist.  The man’s also crying, his eyes bugged out and puffy and red, unfocused but Jack thinks he can tell that they’re looking at  _ him _ .  As if  _ he _ had any stopping power.

Geoff pumps his fist in victory, obviously taking it as a sign of being allowed to commit a  _ murder _ in Jack’s  _ bar _ .  Jack lets out a loud groan, which isn’t quite enough to mask the telltale squeak of the door easing open.  He forgot to lock the door.  Fuck.

All of the assembled men turn to face the door, Ryan’s grip loosening enough for his captive to gulp in a wheezing breath.  Jack’s focus is on the kid at the door.  Because it’s obviously a kid, Jack’s seen enough underage ones trying to buy from him to recognize a kid.  He’s blonde, and thin, long and gangly.  His nose is overly pronounced- too big, but strangely fitting with the crazy blonde mess of static on his head. 

_ He looks a bit like a bird, _ is the first thing Jack thinks.   _ A bird who is witnessing a murder _ , is the second.

  
  


Gavin David Free was always a planner, growing up.  He had plans to join the circus, first, when he saw the flying acrobats in a big tent with his mother when he was ten.  They were amazing, and strong, and they could fly away from all the things way down here, where he was stuck.  He didn’t want to stay on the ground.  He wanted to fly.

He snuck away from his mother’s side in the crowd and slipped into a smaller tent labeled to keep non-carnies out, and found them.  The amazing acrobats from the show.  He asked them to teach him, to let him be like them,  _ they didn’t have to pay him, he just wanted to fly _ .  The woman looked at her partner and smiled sadly at him, told him they couldn’t take a little boy into the circus.

After his mother found him, and took him home, he was locked in his room for leaving her and stayed in there for an amount of time he lost track of.  He planned, during those unnamed hours, to teach himself to fly.

 

When Gavin was twelve, he met Dan and he felt himself fly for the first time.

Dan was a saint, took Gavin under his wing, didn’t ask questions when the much thinner boy came to him with bruises and tears.  Didn’t offer answers when vicious words were repeated to him.  Didn’t take credit when certain other schoolmates suddenly had bloody faces and left Gavin alone. 

When Gavin was twelve, hanging from the branches of a tree with Dan under him, on the grass with an arm over his eyes, he planned for it to be the two of them against the world, always.

 

Dan helped Gavin steal the things he wanted to learn computers.  At fourteen, they were lifting tech and Gavin’s set up had him hacking into anything.  They stayed up late watching Gavin wreak havoc on timed street lights and CCTV cameras.  

At fifteen, Gavin made plans to take them to America:  with no British gangs looking for lookouts or muscle or getaway drivers.  Those were drone jobs that were easily filled by replaceable cannon fodder kids.  For the first time, Gavin shared his plans with someone.

At sixteen, Gavin’s plan for America had fallen nearly to pieces.  Dan had been one of those expendable kids for some gang, and ended up as a member.  He couldn’t leave, much less to go become a high-paid merc with Gavin in the states.  Gavin fixed his plans into daring escapes.  Two English runaways against the world charming their passage into the US and becoming the most powerful duo to ever hit the scene in North America.

When Gavin was seventeen, Dan told his boss about the skinny kid who could hack anything from an energy-drink fortress.  Gavin had never planned for the muscled gang bangers who kicked in his door and dragged him in front of some crooked-toothed mob boss.  They wanted him to work intel for them for a break in.  Then a robbery, then a heist, then a run on the nearest bank. 

When he slipped up, missed a second alarm at another bank and didn’t stop it before the cops showed up, they wanted Gavin dead.

Dan, who had vouched for him- more like handed him in, really, and Gavin had never wanted this but had forgiven his B anyways, because this was the boy who taught Gavin to  _ fly _ -

Dan helped him escape with a beating, and didn’t blink when Gavin lit the warehouse he’d been kept in aflame.  And the flames, the way they strove for the dark, star-spotted sky; the flames made Gavin feel like he was flying.  He lit a few more buildings on fire the next three months, giddy every time.  It was the same weightless, sick feeling he had watching those acrobats.  He loved it.

 

When Gavin was eighteen, Dan enlisted in the army and Gavin gave up all of his plans involving the other man.  Didn’t speak to his friend for nearly a week, silence broken only an hour before Dan had to report to basic training.  His planning, he decided, had gotten him nowhere. There was a rash of fires, and then a plane ticket on his bed, and then there was nothing. 

Gavin David Free came to America posing as a tourist, straight out of high school and exploring the good ole’ US of A before University.  He burned his passport, made himself a ghost online, created several fake passports and IDs and birth certificates.  He had new names now: David Smith, Mark Nutt, Cole Flynn.  He jacked cars on his way to California, likening himself to a great pioneer, journeying westward to a new life.

He didn’t have any plans, lived only for the moment and the rare postcard which he sent to Dan at whatever base he knew the man was from reading a computer screen or watching surveillance footage.  He signed all of them “B”, and didn’t leave a return address.  

He finally made it to California- ending up in Los Santos, the crime capital- in his newest van setup, full hacking equipment and go bags included.  The van parked safely in a wide alleyway, and a 22 year old David Free ID card in his wallet, he stepped into the first bar he found.

And straight into a murder.

  
  


Ryan threw his captive at Jack’s feet and rushed to pull the gangly blonde kid into the bar, slamming the door shut and locking it, seemingly all in one movement.  Then he turned on the kid, the most intimidating kind of glare- the type Jack could never hope to achieve- settled on his face.  The kid  _ audibly gulped _ . 

“Uh-”  His own nervous chuckling cut him off. “You lads know where I can find the nearest cafe?”  It was a weak lie, honestly, but the Jack felt bad when the poor bird-like-kid’s voice broke, disrupting the gaudy English accent.

“He's British!”  Geoff, as unhelpful as ever, started laughing madly, falling over to clutch his stomach.  They all had a clear view to the kid’s face, which looked more terrified by the second.  Jack groaned again, wishing to slam his head down on the bar.  Or Geoff’s.  Whichever. 

A weak cough came from the floor, where Ryan’s victim was clutching his bleeding neck and trying to crawl under a table.  Maybe Jack would just slam both of their heads into the bar. Yeah, both.  Ryan swiveled and kicked the crawling man firmly in the side, providing a sickening crack and making the Brit wince.  

“No murder in my bar!” The knee-jerk reaction seems to make Geoff’s laughing even more manic.  Ryan mutters another ‘ _ oops _ ’.  Jack lets out a pained noise at the splatters of blood the man is coughing onto his floor.  “My  _ bar _ ,”  he whines. 

The Brit, who Jack is sure now will be ‘dead body number two’, makes a gagging noise.  Geoff sobers when the gagging is interrupted by a near-squawk- jesus, Jack was right, this kid  _ is _ a bird- and stares at the Brit.

“Huh,”  Geoff mutters, looking the kid up and down.  Ryan has taken the kid’s wallet, and a small knife and three lighters, from his pocket.  Geoff picks up one of the lighters from the bar top, twirling it in his fingers.  “Little pyro, aren’t ya.”  The kid blushes.

“Got a fake ID too.  And a good one.”  Ryan passes it to his boss- friend, boyfriend? Jack isn’t entirely sure what they are to each other- for him to look at.  Geoff studies the card, then the kid, then turns to Jack.

“Do you still have that reader-thing you use on fakes?”  He nods, watching the kid’s half arrogant half terrified body language.  The slight smirk he’s wearing is surprisingly attractive, and Jack figures the kid’s proud of the fake,  rather than his possible impending doom. 

The card scans as legit, and Geoff grins and gets that dangerous light in his eyes.  The same one he always has when he unsubtly tried to convince Jack to join his two-man crew.  The look on his face is reminiscent of the one he had the first time he brought Ryan here and the blonde broke his nose and left pinky finger.  Jack sighs.  Geoff turns to the Brit.

“You make this?”  He holds up the ID, the plastic catching the light.  Somewhere on the floor a man is slowly drowning in the fluid filling his punctured lung.

“Yeh.”  The kid nods as he says it, static-charged hair waving.  His face looks torn between pride and suspicion.  Jack finds the ultimate half-lost look endearing.  He decides Geoff’s obsessive pack-bonding attitude must be wearing off on him.

“How’d you like to work for me?” Geoff doesn’t mention that he has two people in his pipe dream of a crew, including him, or that the base of operations is currently Ryan’s mysteriously nice apartment (Jack asked once, and Geoff spouted something about modeling and substitute theatre teachers.  Jack doesn’t believe a word of it) or in Jack’s bar.  Geoff only offers his best half-crazed smile and the ID card in an outstretched hand.

“Not really much of a choice though, innit?”  He drops some of his ‘t’s, a sign to Jack that this twiggy bird of a kid must be fresh off the proverbial boat.  Geoff just smiles wider.

  
  


Jack sees a lot more of the kid- whose name turns out to be Gavin, and who adamantly hates being referred to as “kid”.  Jack nods sagely, but still calls Gavin by the term.  Gavin blushes and squawks every time, but always answers to it regardless.  There’s a running bet going in the bar about how old Gavin really is.  

To the point that there is a black board on the wall behind the bar with numbers and the current bet on that number and a jar labeled with each and an actual ledger that Jack’s ex-pool-shark bouncer keeps track of.  The current leads are fifteen at five hundred, twenty at four-fifty, and twenty-three at three hundred and five.  Gavin doesn’t discourage it, giving a different age to any who ask or answering with only some weird hypothetical question.

Geoff always jokes that Gavin is either twelve or twenty-five and that the kid will be the only one to ever know.  After scaring off some really handsy lackey of some other crew, Ryan eventually corners him and ensures that he is at  _ least _ eighteen.  Gavin makes him promise not to ruin the fun of the betting pool, and then coos for days about  _ “my lovely Rye-bread, comin’ t’my rescue” _ .  Ryan throws a knife into a wall, and Gavin’s teasing stops for all of two days.

That’s when he starts in on Jack, during those two days.  Because Gavin is currently afraid of Ryan, and he has some modicum of respect for Geoff, and the bouncer nearly threw him down the stairs last time, so.  Jack is the only viable target.  He pokes at the ginger man’s beard and tetris tattoos and flannel shirts, practically  _ preening  _ when he manages to get Jack flustered.  

This lasts well after those two days, and well after the rise of Geoff Ramsey, Crime Boss of the Fakes.  

 

Gavin has always admired Jack- he was an attractive man who dressed in flannels and florals, who  _ wouldn’t _ .  And, after getting over his crime-crush on Ryan (because this man not only talked Gavin through his first few kills, but had also blown up  _ three whole buildings _ for Gavin’s birthday, how could any self-respecting teenager  _ not _ have a crush) he started to realize that he had one on Jack.   Well, not a crime-crush, but an actual crush, and a persistent one, at that.  

Sometime between admiring that bar owner’s skills as a driver and medic for their little crew, and his looks, and his kind, warm nature, Gavin David Free had developed a quite dangerously huge crush on Jack.  His first response to realizing it had been to hole himself up in his computer room and survive on energy drinks for two weeks, only interacting with people through the special burner he’d taken to texting Dan on.  

Eventually, he got over his panic and re-integrated with the crew and Jack.  Although, at that point Jack practically  _ was _ crew.  He was their driver, and Geoff’s voice of reason and second in everything but name.  They’d gained some serious notoriety in the two years since Gavin had joined, upgrading to hold a few small businesses in their influence (the bar, two restaurants, a club further downtown, and a few warehouses).  They owned a safe house out past Mt. Chiliad, and had a penthouse.  

They had a sniper too, and a demolitions man/ muscle.  Both had come from the east coast and had shown up in Los Santos as an unconnected duo, one a hitman and one an underground fighter.  Gavin had quickly connected them as partners and there had been two visits made simultaneously: Ryan to the rooftop Brownman was camped out on, and Geoff to the fight Mogar had just won.  Two business cards taped to burners.

They only received one call, a week later, a quick “we’re in” followed by Gavin’s text of an address.

 

They’d met at the bar, because of course they’d meet there.  Back where it all started.  Michael and Ray walked in to find Geoff with an arm draped over the Vagabond’s shoulders, blue eyes boring into them from inside a black skull mask.  Gavin was wearing an expensive shirt, glittering gold where he was perched next to a floral-clad Jack, thigh pressed against the man’s shoulder.  

At the first threat to leave Mogar’s lips, Gavin kept his pretty mask on and admired Jack’s lion-esque mane of ginger hair when he stepped forward to defend the Brit.  He was preening before he realized it, unable to stop himself from the warm, nauseous feeling when Jack’s knee-jerk reaction was to defend Gavin.

Sitting there, in the wake of Jack telling Mogar off, he felt like he was flying.

  
  


Michael glares at Gavin, bristling at the comparison for a split second before retorting. 

“Well, then you’re a fucking Magpie!  One of those crazy, annoying birds with the awful screeching!”  Gavin squawks indignantly, Michael muttering it as proof, and Gavin tackles him.  They wrestle on the floor, game forgotten, until a flailing limb knocks over Ryan’s diet coke.

They both shout blame at the other and then promptly retreat to opposite corners of the penthouse.  Gavin ends up in the kitchen, perching himself on the only counter not currently in use for cooking and whining at Geoff and Jack.  Jack looks up from his task- restocking the first-aid kits.  Geoff just grumbles and keeps stirring whatever it is he’s taken the time to cook.

Gavin knows why Geoff’s cooking, it’s a special occasion, the day he chooses to celebrate as the day they actually became a crew.  The same day Gavin stumbled into Jack’s old bar, and Ryan’s murder, three years ago.  He’s all tingly when he thinks about it.  That Geoff credits him as the first technical member (Ryan was just his partner, two-man jobs don’t count as crew work).  That Geoff had once said that he was sure Gavin was the reason Jack had given in and joined, and stayed.

Geoff had been drunk, and Jack had brushed it off as bullshit, but Ryan had simply patted Gavin’s shoulder, and the Brit had swallowed harshly around the falling-heat feeling of flying and had cried later, happy coughing tears into his pillows and had been smiling the next week straight, at least.  

Now, Jack looked up at the whiny blonde and raised an eyebrow at him.  Gavin made a set of gurgling noises that equated from Gavin-ese into English as: _ “I’m bored and my feelings are hurt” _ .  Jack smiled.

“Michael and you have a fight?”  He asks; Geoff mutters something but Gavin ignores him in favor of nodding at Jack.

“The mong called me a bloody  _ magpie _ , Jack.  A  _ magpie _ !”  He slides off the counter semi-gracefully, crashing into a heap in the chair next to the ginger, sprawling his long arms on the table, ignoring the various medical supplies he disrupts.  He rests his forehead on the cool table top.

“I’m sure you deserved it.”  Geoff mumbles dryly, tossing more of some spice into the pot mysteriously.  Gavin squawks, and Geoff says, bitingly: “Exactly.”

“Jaaaack,” Gavin whines, “Geoffrey’s being mean, Jack.” 

“Aw, poor thing.”  Jack’s tone is laughing but he pets through Gavin’s unruly hair in the way he knows calms the Brit, so Gavin assumes he’s got the man on his side.  “What’s so wrong with being a magpie, Gav?” 

 

“Well, cause… they’re annoying and’ve got bad screechy voices, right?”  Jack tilts his head so that Gavin is looking up at him, cheek pressed to the table.

“Have you ever seen one?”  Gavin lifts his head, slightly, looking at where Jack is typing on his phone while somehow simultaneously giving Gavin his ‘stern yet fond’ look which always has the Brit near swooning.

“Not that I can think of, why?”  Jack turns the phone towards him, and Gavin reads the search bar:  _ Azure-winged Magpie _ is typed in.  

Beneath the words are pictures of very surprisingly pretty birds with pretty blue wings and shiny beaks.  One is set up in front of a burning orange and gold sunset and all Gavin can seem to be reminded of is flames and Jack’s hair and that flying feeling and he blushes, staring stupidly at the picture.

“Pretty, huh?”  Gavin nods, taking the phone and tapping the sunset one.  The bird does look pretty, all blue and soft grey, and the sunset is burning a bright-ish orange on it's feathers.  Gavin is speechless, and looks back up at Jack to find this lion of a man already looking at him with a slight flush and a smile.  

 

And Gavin has that same sick-falling feeling in his stomach when he surges forwards and upwards to kiss Jack, the other man’s lips burning on his like a sunset.  Jack kisses back and at twenty-one years old, Gavin David Free feels like he’s flying.


End file.
